


Catbird Seat

by fables



Category: Tennis no Oujisama | Prince of Tennis
Genre: Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-03-04
Updated: 2005-03-04
Packaged: 2018-04-23 10:28:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4873345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fables/pseuds/fables
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ryouma finds what he's looking for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Catbird Seat

Two days after his graduation from high school, one month after his father's funeral, Ryouma joins the pro circuit. He goes on to win every game he plays, every tournament he enters. The victories blend together in an unending plateau. Reporters compare him to his father, elaborate in detail on the tragedy of it all, his father dying before he'd had a chance to see Ryouma climb the ranks of a tennis pro. As if they knew Nanjiroh personally, as if Nanjiroh had ever cared. After the third time Ryouma sees his face on a magazine cover, he cancels all his subscriptions.

 

Ryouma's agent is as ecstatic about his success as Ryouma is indifferent. He tells Ryouma that Nike has called, Adidas, Gatorade and Nokia and a dozen other brands. They want contracts of one year, two, five. Does Ryouma have any preferences, any ideas on how to develop his image, so that they can move forward?

But Ryouma doesn't _want_ to move forward. He's tired of playing games that blur into one another and leave nothing afterwards, not even the faintest satisfaction. He's always been precocious, labelled a prodigy before he was taller than his racket, but dying of ennui before reaching nineteen, he feels, might be pushing it.

It hasn't always been like this, Ryouma thinks.

His agent holds the contract specs in his immaculately manicured hands. His voice drops an octave, as it always does when he's about to close a deal. Apparently there's an optional call clause in the Nike contract that if they could negotiate on would cinch things, though that would require playing them against Adidas, and if Ryouma could decide if he is more of a fit for Nike's win at all costs image or Adidas's more offbeat -

"I have decided," Ryouma says when his agent stops to take a breath, "that I want to take a day off."

 

Fuji lives in a flat which he shares with Eiji, on the edge of the Kyoto prefecture. Ryouma goes there without announcing his visit. "Echizen!", Fuji exclaims, smiling as if Ryouma is the best surprise he has ever received. Ryouma drinks Fuji's coffee and eats his cookies and leaves as he came: alone, empty-handed but for the tennis bag slung over his shoulder.

I don't play tennis anymore, Fuji says, and that is that, like a mountain or an ocean, something that Ryouma can't defeat or will away.

Not yet, anyway.

This is one thing that Ryouma can finish, and will.

 

One week later, Ryouma wins the Australian Open. Two hours later, he flies to the U.S. to do promotions. One day later, he receives a call from Eiji.

He's been receiving countless congratulatory calls, and had thought this one would be more of the same. But it isn't. 

Ryouma hangs up the phone, goes to stand by the window. The world outside is choked with snow, a white blanket covering the streets and skyscrapers of the city. One day ago it had been summer.

 

Ryouma meets his agent at an upscale restaurant near the center of the city - _ideal for a business lunch_ , his agent says, as if reading off an advertisement flyer. There's the soft clicking of glasses, the muted sounds of voices. The lights are dim, the waiters discreet. No one gives any indication of having recognized him.

Ryouma drinks Ponta from a long-stemmed wine glass. Stares at the folds of the napkin, at the parallel lines of forks. His agent makes an effort to keep his voice low and even. Could Ryouma please decide which deals he wants to sign? Coke is offering less money than Pepsi, but it's also a more prestigious brand, and of course he must take the Nokia deal if only for the amount of money provided, and has he ever considered posing for underwear ads?

Ryouma takes another sip of his drink. Says, "I want to take a break."

His agent nods understandingly. Yes, of course. A day off to recover from the strain is completely-

"A few months at least," Ryouma says.

His agent sputters. Sprays the tablecloth with his 1994 Austrian Eiswein.

 

Ryouma flies to Tokyo. Takes a cab from the airport to the university, and after an hour is still only halfway there. The traffic has been bad lately, the driver says. Ryouma doesn't care to look out the window or talk. His cell phone rings, he turns it off without checking the caller. Puts his head on his elbow, pushes his cap out of the way, is asleep in a blink. Wakes again only when the cab reaches its destination.

The sun is sinking from a red-painted sky. Leaves fall around him as he walks, crunch beneath the soles of his sneakers. Ryouma adjusts his bag on his shoulder. Looks up only when he hears a laugh, his shoulders stiffening.

It's been over a year. He hadn't thought that it would still sound so familiar.

A group of students is walking towards Ryouma, and he's in the middle, as he has always been. Ryouma pulls his cap further down over his face, doesn't change course. They stream around him, fish carried by a ceaseless current. He brushes shoulders, hard, against one. Doesn't stop walking until he hears a voice shouting behind him.

"Hey, watch where you're going! Are you drunk or something? You can't just-"

Ryouma turns around. Momoshiro trails off, his eyes widening.

"Yo," Ryouma says.

 

Momoshiro leads a simple, uncomplicated life. He takes classes at the university, has a part-time job at a convenience store, goes out more than he should and studies less than he should. His biggest worries are whether he's going to pass his exams and meet rent for the next month. It's a life that's as ordinary as rain in the spring, and he can't figure out just where an international tennis star could fit into it.

Ryouma is sitting next to Momoshiro, looking at his bowl as if he expects, any moment, for the noodles to uncoil upwards and attack him. It's been over a year, enough time for Momoshiro to have become used to seeing Ryouma's face on the TV screen. Momoshiro can't help staring now and feeling uncomfortable for doing so.

"I'm sorry about your father," Momoshiro says, setting his chopsticks down by the side of the bowl. He hadn't had a chance to say it before.

Ryouma turns his gaze to Momoshiro. His eyes are dark and disconcerting. "Eiji-sempai told me that you were living with a girl, but she left," he says.

Momoshiro blinks. It takes him a moment to understand, to follow the words. "Yeah. Keiko moved out a few weeks ago," he says, and thinks, Ryouma had talked to Eiji, but hadn't had enough time to return Momoshiro's calls.

"Keiko," Ryouma says carefully. "Is that why the place is such a mess?" And Momoshiro's eyes travel across the kitchen, the unwashed dishes in the sink, the garbage can close to overflowing, the takeout containers on the counter, his chipped bowl.

It would have been better, if Ryouma had called. Cleaner, and Momoshiro wonders if Ryouma has ever given consideration to others. Momoshiro's jaw tightens. "If you don't like it-" he says. Stops because he doesn't know what to say next. The water in the bowl is murky now, the noodles cold and distinctly unappetizing.

And Ryouma says, breaking the silence, "Are you going to kick me out too, Momo- _sempai_?"

"Too?" And he's off center again, off balance; talking to Ryouma is like walking through fog on a slippery, icy road.

"I went and saw Fuji-sempai a few weeks ago," Ryouma says.

"You can stay as long as you want," Momoshiro finally says. "You know that."

 

The apartment is small, and when Momoshiro pulls out the futon for Ryouma, there's barely any space left to walk. The TV stand is next to Ryouma's legs, his nose just a few centimeters away from the shelf. It has Rocky and Jackie Chan DVDs, english CDs, coils of tape, playstation and its controllers, papers stacked haphazardly on the top. All Momoshiro's things, and it's as if Keiko had been as insubstantial as a shadow, leaving no traces behind.

Momoshiro talks about his classes, his friends. A world without Ryouma in it. He talks to the edge of sleep, his words becoming quieter and more blurred, until there is space between and above them again. For the sound of the traffic outside, the click-click of a heater that seems to do very little heating, a baby crying. He stops and Ryouma lies awake long after, in a room that has grown quiet and dark and cold.

Ryouma doesn't know what he is doing here. He had followed his first instinct, as he's always done on the tennis courts. But this isn't like any game he has ever played.

It bothers Ryouma that he can't pinpoint when it happened, bothers him more that he can't figure out how. He thinks that maybe it was like the turning of seasons, from autumn to winter, a gradual lowering of the temperatures so that you couldn't say what day it had become necessary to wear gloves, hats, when the rain had turned to snow and the trees had become bare.

But then he thinks, no, that can't be true, because he hadn't thought about Momoshiro at all, before. Hadn't thought of anything, the past year, but the straight lines and geometrical angles of tennis courts, the curved trajectory of the ball. And perhaps there had been signs but he hadn't paid attention, perhaps he had just never realized.

Because his first thought, when Eiji had told him that Momoshiro had been living with someone, that it had seemed serious, had been - "but he's _mine_."

And that wasn't something you thought about a friend, no matter how close.

 

Ryouma dreams that he's on the court again with his father. The moon shines full and bright, the air is filled with snowflakes. It's so unexpected that at first Ryouma thinks that the sky is breaking apart, falling in white shadows.

Ryouma loses the game, just as he has lost every other game they've ever played. He rubs sweat out of his eyes, looks up through a haze. Thinks, _I wasn't fast enough to catch him._

His father smiles, an amused curve of the lips. The image wavers, comes sharply into focus then dims, his father putting his racket on his shoulder, turning to leave.

"Wait," Ryouma says. _"Wait,"_ But his father doesn't turn, doesn't stop walking.

 

Momoshiro wakes to his alarm. Rolls out of bed with his eyes still closed, and doesn't remember that Ryouma's sleeping on the floor until he trips over the futon. He barely regains his balance in time, stubbing his toe against the bed in the process.

"Dammit," he mutters.

On the floor, Ryouma stirs, pushing the blanket back, but his eyes remain closed. His face is leaner than Momoshiro remembers, sharp angles and hollows, square jaw with a hint of stubble. Ryouma turns, presses the side of his face against the red fabric, then stills again, his breathing deep and even. Momoshiro wonders how long he will stay, but is reluctant to ask. It's an irrational thought, that things will end if he questions them too closely, but he can't shake it off.

When Momoshiro comes out of the shower, the futon is placed neatly in one corner, and Ryouma's standing in the kitchen, a piece of bread in his hand. He yawns, stretching like a cat. Scowls at the cupboard as if he can blame it for the morning, turns to look at Momoshiro.

"Good morning," Momoshiro says with a smile.

"Morning," Ryouma mutters, his eyes unreadable. "You still like this?" he asks, taking out a jar of peanut butter.

"Of course," Momoshiro says, and Ryouma brings it to the counter, sits on the stool beside Momoshiro's.

The first time Momoshiro had tasted peanut butter had been in Ryouma's house. The flavor had settled on his tongue, smooth and rich and strange. Immediately addictive. Ryouma had looked at him with narrowed eyes. "Figures you'd like what the old man likes," he'd said.

Ryouma takes the jar when Momoshiro is done, puts some on his own half-eaten bread. Doesn't look at Momoshiro, a half-frown on his face. There's an unidentifiable tension in the air, prickling against Momoshiro's skin. Momoshiro considers leaving, escaping to classes. Letting his usual routine settle over him until everything feels normal again.

Once, Momoshiro thinks, it wouldn't have seemed strange, to be sitting together like this. They'd have shared notes for classes, made plans to play tennis later, Ryouma in muttered monosyllables, because he'd always hated mornings. Momoshiro would have reached over and ruffled a much shorter Ryouma's hair, just like -

Ryouma's head snaps up, his eyes narrowed and glittering. And Momoshiro can't help but laugh, because the distance between them is so small, after all. Ryouma is sitting less an arm's length away.

He says, "Hey. It's a great day. Let's go outside."

 

They go at high noon, when the sun is at its zenith and no shadows fall. They wander in and out of arcades, eat lunch at McDonalds, amble their way to the park. Ryouma wears a hat, sunglasses, walks with his shoulders hunched. They pass people walking dogs, salarymen and women in suits, mothers pushing strollers, students carrying backpacks, books, and it seems like every third one of them knows Momoshiro.

"I work at a convenience store a few blocks away," Momoshiro says, smiling with a touch of embarrassment. "I see most of them every day."

There's a street court in the middle of the park. Its wire-metal door is open, swinging idly with the wind. Ryouma hesitates near the fence, head down, listening to the rhythm of the ball, the players as they run across the court.

"You said that you visited Fuji-sempai," Momoshiro says.

"I wanted to play a game. He didn't." And Ryouma can tell, without looking at the court, who the better player is. How the game will end, who will win.

"Do you want to play now?" Momoshiro asks, and Ryouma's head snaps up. _Is that all you know how to do anymore,_ Fuji had said, voice arch and amused, and Ryouma remembers. On the court there's the sound of running feet, then silence. The ball missed, the rally ended.

"No," Ryouma says, and picks up his pace, passing the court without a second glance.

"You weren't able to change Fuji-sempai's mind?" Momoshiro asks.

Ryouma says nothing, but that had never deterred Momoshiro in the past, and, Ryouma notes with growing irritation, doesn't seem to now.

Momoshiro says, "I wonder who'll turn out to be more stubborn."

Ryouma's eyes narrow. "It has nothing to do with being stubborn," he says.

"Of course not," Momoshiro says. Looks at Ryouma, eyes the color of a sunset sky, smiling a smile that could be painted on for all the emotion behind it. Ryouma's step falters.

He's not used to this. Not used to facing someone without a net between them, not anymore.

Momoshiro says, "Fuji-sempai's someone for you to beat. You always did need that." And Ryouma hears Fuji's words again, sees his father standing on the court.

"No," Ryouma says. Because there's a difference between wanting something and needing it, and he knows that now.

The tree behind Momoshiro is bare, the grass littered with brown and yellow leaves. There's a kite caught in one of its branches, fluttering with the wind and unable to fly free. Momoshiro's smile fades. "Is something wrong?" he asks. 

"I don't," Ryouma starts to say, when there's a shout behind them. Ryouma's shoulders stiffen reflexively. But once again, he's not the one who's been recognized, but Momoshiro; there's a boy walking towards them with a backpack on one shoulder, waving a sheet of papers, yelling about some club meeting that Momoshiro's missed.

Momoshiro turns, and the moment fades, just like that.

When Ryouma looks back at the court, he finds it empty. Only the wind, pushing a leaf this way and that.

 

The next morning, Momoshiro's in the shower when the doorbell rings. Ryouma tenses and is immediately taken down by a punch-kick-punch combo. He scowls. He had just been about to beat Momoshiro's high score, and now he'll have to start over again. He drops the controllers in disgust, uncoils up and opens the door.

There is a deliveryman holding flowers in one hand, squinting down at a clipboard. "This is for - lemme see here - is this the residence of Mo-"

"Yeah," Ryouma says, taking the flowers. The deliveryman looks up. His eyes widen.

"You - you're-"

Ryouma shuts the door in his face.

There are a dozen red roses, their color vivid and startling as a sudden spring. _To finding what you're looking for,_ the card reads. It has no name on it.

Momoshiro comes out, toweling his hair dry. He's wearing pants and an unbuttoned shirt. His feet are bare, curling against the chill of the floor.

"I thought you'd broken up with Keiko," Ryouma says.

"Broken up? She was just crashing here until she found her own place." Drops of water fall from Momoshiro's hair to his collarbone and chest. He sees the roses and smiles widely. "Ohoho. Flowers from a fan? How did they find you here?"

"But Eiji-sempai said that-" Ryouma stops. Eiji, who is Fuji's roommate. Who had just casually mentioned the news, between _Kuwabara's working full-time now at his family's restaurant,_ and _I missed yesterday's class on torts and Tezuka-buchou refused to give me his notes, so mean!_

The flowers aren't for Momoshiro, after all. It's like a stereogram picture that's suddenly come into focus.

"But Eiji-sempai said," Momoshiro says, parroting Ryouma's words back to him. "Who are the flowers from?" His eyes are dark when he looks at Ryouma.

"There's no name on the card," Ryouma says.

"You thought Keiko and I were going out."

For all his brashness, Momoshiro had also been capable of making swift, tactically brilliant calculations on the court, and Ryouma is reminded once again.

"Is that what Eiji-sempai said?" Momoshiro asks. The towel drops from his shoulders unnoticed. "Ah, our sempai are still so meddlesome."

"No," Ryouma says, and thinks, he wasn't fast enough, he's lost this game too.

"You were gone for a year. Didn't return any of my calls or emails or texts. Didn't visit. I would have sent letters, but I didn't know where to send them. Would have visited, but I didn't know where you were. And then one day you're here, just like that." Momoshiro walks to the bed, sits on the edge. Puts socks on, as if it's a perfectly normal day, as if they're having a conversation about the weather. "Did you come because of what Eiji-sempai said?"

His head is bent and Ryouma can't see his expression. Ryouma stays still, as if he has planted roots in the center of the room. "I thought you might want some company," he says, and knows it's the wrong thing, even before he's finished speaking.

Momoshiro looks up. His lips twist in a parody of a smile. "Well, you wasted a trip then. Keiko wasn't my girlfriend, just my friend. And friends lose track of each other all the time, don't they?" His voice is artificially light. He buttons his shirt, and the line of buttons is uneven, one tail of the shirt longer than the other. Gets up, takes a tie from the drawer and wraps it loosely around his neck. "So, you don't have to worry. I'm doing just fine."

Ryouma doesn't say anything.

"I'm late for class. I'm sure you have more important things to do than be here. When you go, leave a note?" Opens his closet, tugs down his jacket from the hanger. And Ryouma thinks, _No_. He's across the room before he even realizes, grabbing Momoshiro's jacket so he can't put it on.

"What-" Momoshiro begins.

"You're not a very good liar."

Momoshiro's eyes narrow. He snatches his jacket away. "Who do you think you are? You can't just come after one year, without calling or anything, and expect everything to-"

"I thought you might be lonely," Ryouma says.

"I'm not fucking-"

"I was lonely."

"Oh," Momoshiro says, utterly still. Just that, and nothing else, and it's as if someone has cast a spell. As if nothing can move anymore, nothing can happen.

"You idiot," Momoshiro says, in a voice completely unlike his own. Steps forward, and the spell snaps, breaks.

Ryouma lets the flowers fall from his hand to the floor. "Shut up," he says, suddenly, blindingly furious. Turns, finds his bag and unzips it. One of his socks is under the bed; he crouches down to get it, to pack his things and _leave_. A shadow falls over him, Momoshiro blocking the sun. Ryouma turns around, glares. _"Move,"_ he says.

"No," Momoshiro says, and kneels down. Ryouma's fingers fist around his sock, his knuckles going white, nails digging through the cotton fabric and into skin.

Momoshiro's tie is crooked, his collar falling open over skin. His eyes are dark and intent. The sun pours around him, harsh and blinding. He brings a hand up, slow and careful, as if Ryouma is something wild, as if he might turn at any sudden movement, run or strike out. Touches Ryouma, and Ryouma flinches, then stills.

Momoshiro runs fingers down the side of Ryouma's face, tracing a line from his cheekbone to his jaw, and Ryouma's anger disappears as suddenly as it came, leaving nothing, nothing in its place.

Momoshiro's skin is warm, his fingertips slightly callused. Ryouma can't remember the last time someone had touched him.

"Stay," Momoshiro says.

Ryouma takes a slow breath. Closes his eyes, and the room fades into darkness, the cluttered floor and cracked walls and light pouring through the half-opened window, but the touch remains.

**Author's Note:**

> Some inspirations: Robert Penn Warren's poem, [Love Recognized](http://genius.com/Robert-penn-warren-love-recognized-annotated). The Silent League's [The Catbird Seat](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ds8DH9BN9WA).


End file.
